Apex
by LoveThemGingers
Summary: "I had my own agenda. I never wanted to help him. But only someone like Fen would struggle to die in the arena." :53rd Games, T for violence:
1. Chapter 1

It's sunny on Reaping Day.

Well, as sunny as it ever has been in District 6. The sky is always darkened by the smoke from the trains, the people always stopping every few steps to cough and wipe the sickly tears from their eyes, muttering their apologies to their comrades. Today, though, the streets lay empty as I make my way to the Workyard, free of the constant hustle and bustle of tired people moving about. Many spend their whole lives between their homes and this place, a blur of rattling sighs and idle gossip. Then again, they don't seem to mind.

The sky is still red from the glow of the morning sun when the familiar chain-link fence comes into view, barely leaving any shadow on the concrete beneath it. Behind the fence, I can already see the trains passing by, funneling smoke high into the atmosphere, headed for today's destination. We'd spent all year rebuilding them, repairing them, and applying a shiny new coat of paint so that they were spotless just in time for the Games.

Soon, they would all be carrying two terrified tributes. All our hard work, reduced to vessels existing only to take scared children away from their families.

As a pang of guilt washes over me, I remind myself not to think about it. Feeling guilty is not going to make today bearable.

The air is filled with the faint sound of clanging metal coming from the Workyard, along with the occasional shout from one worker to another. Even from this distance I can see people working on some of the freight the trains, crawling around on them like swarming ants. Any other day, that would be me. After school, I work a shift as a mechanic on the trains, as do most of my family. Our wage only pays enough to keep one person sustained, so it's necessary that all of my time is divided between school and work.

Strictly speaking, we shouldn't be here on a 'holiday', but nobody is thinking of anything but getting those trains ready at this time in the morning. All of the Peacekeepers will be at the Justice Building, anyway. I do look ridiculously out of place. Workers are not excused from the Reaping and always end up scrambling in late and covered in soot, but I look quite dapper in my brand new clothes. They're already starting to look a little dirty, although just about everything around here does. It's impossible to work on trains all day without traipsing grease back into your house. It drives my mother crazy, but there's nothing to be done about it.

I climb the fence with ease, not even bothering to check the gate. It's always padlocked; rusted shut. I fall heavily on the other side and scrape my hands on the ground, but I'm alright. I admire the smears of blood left on the bleak concrete. At least it looks a little more lively now. Examining my hand, I wonder if I could have gotten an infection from the ground, but infected hands are the least of my worries.

To be honest, it wouldn't matter if I'd broken my leg. Nothing was going to stop me seeing Blaire today. I'd already gotten up three hours earlier than usual, wolfed 'breakfast' down in a hurry and been out of the door before either of my parents had noticed. Anyone who saw me passing might have thought I was trying to escape the Reaping. As though anyone would be that stupid.

Blaire is sitting on the ground when I reach her, and she gifts me with a genuine smile as I approach. "Hi," she says simply as I sit down beside her, clasping her hand in mine and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Hey," I reply. She's dressed up for the Reaping as well, all decked out in some lacy garment with a black ribbon around the waist. I lean down to kiss her cheek and notice something powdery is covering it. Her mother must have made her wear make-up. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." She flicks me a secretive little grin before she unlaces our fingers and guides my hand to her swollen abdomen, where it rests, trembling.

"I thought it was too early to feel kicking," I remind her quietly. I had hoped that, somehow, we wouldn't acknowledge this today.

"It doesn't matter. She's still in here."

"How do you know it's a she?" I ask, surprised. It's been a she since the beginning, for some reason, though it's never been explained to me before.

"I just know," she answers with a shrug, glancing at me. Her blue eyes are usually full of life, but today they just look weighed down. Not tearful, just sad. "I guess we shouldn't act like it's a human. You're right. If I get chosen-"

I silence her with a groan and take my hand away. "Blaire . . ."

We sit in silence, me staring into the distance, her biting her lip bloody. Both of us have been worrying about this day for months now. So have our families, although their way of showing it is to berate us constantly for being so stupid. At sixteen, we're too young to be parents, but before, we were confident that we'd be just fine and that we were old enough to make our own choices.

Then we remembered the Games. They aren't a choice.

"You could win, you know," I say hopefully, breaking the silence. "You're smart, and you're brave. Just imagine how rich we'd be if you won."

"I'm not fit," she sighs, gesturing to her stomach. "Obviously."

"A kid won a few years ago just by being smart," I tell her, my voice almost painfully upbeat. "Imagine how much the Capitol would love you. And then you'd come home, and we'd get married. Right?"

"Right, Carmine." She doesn't sound convinced, and I don't blame her. I haven't even convinced myself. "I might not get Reaped, anyway," she adds, trying her hand at optimism. It doesn't suit her.

"Exactly!" I say quickly. Her name has been entered far more than the mandatory five times, but District 6 isn't small. Plenty of kids have been entered more than she has. "I'll do tesserae next year again, too. You can have everything."

She raises her eyebrows. "We agreed it was a one-time thing!"

"But the odds are in our favour, angel," I reassure her, mimicking the escort who always comes to choose the names on Reaping day. She chuckles. We always made fun of how he seems to say the same thing every single year. Saying he wants the odds to be in our favour, before drawing another unlucky person into their doom.

She nestles into me and we sit like that, half-hugging each other, slumped against the fence until the sunlight becomes genuine. I can feel her skin shivering beneath my finger tips, and she's sweating through that pretty dress. I don't know how to comfort her after convincing myself that she'll probably be drawn from that ball. She'll probably be dragged, kicking and screaming, up onto that platform. She wouldn't last five minutes in the games. I'd watch her die on a wide-screen television in front of the whole nation, murdered by some kid whose entire life was spent preparing for this event.

There would be no dignity for her.

There's a deep, low hum as a train from the Capitol pulls into the station. There's a big fuss at the platform and we know it's time to move. Hand in hand, we walk back to the town square, not saying another word._ I love you _would feel too cheap at this moment. Everything does.

The sound of false cheering seeps into our ears as we draw closer, and before we can even hug goodbye she's whisked away to stand with the other girls, and I'm left to watch her get into line, her eyes widening at the sight of the reaping balls, one containing each of our names.


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn't take long to find my family in the crowd. They're near the outside of the clutter, clearly looking for me. As soon as I'm spotted, my mother wraps her arms around me and pulls me in for a hug. Another pair of arms snake around me; my sister, Noe. An encouraging slap on the back indicates my dad.

As soon as I'm released, my mother's eyes travel through the throng of teenagers, already cordoned off into their age groups. "You look out for him in that crowd, Noe," she says to my sister. At eighteen, Noe is ever so slightly taller than I am, but has the same unruly brown hair and dark eyes. Usually calm and responsible, today she looks a nervous wreck. I suppose that's another thing we have in common.

She doesn't say a word to my mother, and just hugs me again. "I can't wait until this is over," she admits, her voice muffled because her face is pressed into my shoulder. "My last Reaping."

I can't imagine how it must feel. She must be the only eighteen-year-old in the district with her name only entered seven times. My family never signed us up for tesserae, although I took it last year for Blaire's family.

My parents mutter their agreement, nervously glancing up at the Reaping balls on stage. After today, they'll only have one child to worry about losing.

I still have another two years of this. So does Blaire. And when our baby grows up . . . _If _our baby grows up . . .

I snap myself out of my thoughts and back to reality. Now isn't the time to think about that.

I wince and pull away. Noe hugs my mother, and then my father, but I don't give them a second glance. I'm trying to find Blaire in the crowd as Noe says her goodbyes, and my parents wish us the best of luck. Without another word, we traipse off to join our peers, silently confident that the odds _will_ be ever in our favour.

. . . Did I really just repeat that stupid phrase?

Hemmed in with all the other sixteens, I'm overwhelmed with a sudden desire to escape. The amount of equally nervous, sweating, terrified people pressed against me is too much to handle. I feel the urge to shove all the others out of my way, jump the ropes cordoning us off, and high-tail it towards the gates. With all the Peacemakers concentrated here, I probably could scale the wall and make an easy break for it. I could be gone before anyone noticed I was missing. I could start a new life in the forest, or whatever lies beyond my district, eating berries and nuts and hunting wild rabbits.

Yeah, right. Running away would mean leaving Blaire, and that's the last thing I want to do.

There are only three people on stage, when there should be four. One is our Mayor, whom I've never really had any contact with before, and who is currently delivering her speech on stage, that I'm intentionally zoning out on. Beside her is our representitive, a man named Gabriel who is somewhat new to our District. Apparently, he isn't fond of his last name, because he never uses it - he's just "Gabriel", and that's the most informal thing about him. Despite being from the very colourful Capitol, he matches District Six exactly with his black suit, silver hair, and grey skin. Every year, is voice is monotonous as he routinely tells us that representing Six is such a huge honour for him. But it's not quite time for that yet.

Only one of our past victors is standing on stage, the infamous Brass Maddox. I've seen her on this stage every year since I was small, but it's still impossible for me to imagine someone so skinny and frail as her winning the Games. She was strong in her teens, though, and it wasn't until a few years after she came home that she started using a drug called 'morphling'. Today her eyes, as always, are large and almost completely black, and she looks more than a little bit lost. She has the look of an addict, and it's no secret that she is one.

I search the crowd for Blaire, but she's lost in the sea of teenage girls, too small to stand out. Defeated, I turn back to the stage again in time to see the Mayor finish her speech and hand the microphone off to Gabriel. He starts talking, but I tune it out, noticing that once again there is an empty space to the left of him where the other mentor should be.

In the history of the Hunger Games, we have only had three victors. After all, we aren't exactly at an advantage when it comes to survival. Unlike tributes from 10 and 11, who spend their entire childhoods learning about food, we learn about trains. While tributes from 2 and 4 grow up learning combat skills, all we know is how to build transport for the Captiol. Two of those victors, Brass included, won well before I was even born. The other living victor is a younger boy called Skipper, who only won two years ago. He's most certainly alive, but nowhere to be seen.

One of the little twelve year olds nearby starts crying, spurring on the younger kids in the audience to do the same. Their shrieks pierce through the polite applause as Gabriel begins his speech, peering at the crowd over his thick-rimmed glasses.

I want to scream out, too. I want to tell him to please shut up. None of us gathered around, waiting to find out if we're about to lose our brothers or sisters or girlfriendsl none of us care about what he has to say. "Just pick the name!" I want to yell, but I don't. "Just pick the name so we can go home!"

And pick the name he does, reaching into the girl's bowl first, rummaging around for a while before extracting a slip of paper. His eyes flick down to it for only a second before fixing on the huge group of girls, clutching each other, radiating fear.

"Noe Abbott!" he announces, his thin mouth curving into a smirk. "Come on up! You're our lucky girl."

My breath catches in my throat. Nobody moves.

"Noe Abbott?" he repeats after a period of silence, glancing back at the card to check he got the name right. All heads swivel towards my sister, standing straight and confident, eyes focused on the ground as the words sink in. The girls around her start to push her towards the stage and I glare at them, but nobody seems to notice.

I don't understand what's happening. Her name was in the mandatory seven times, no more than that. This is her last year, the last year she ever has to worry about this until she has children of her own. And now what chance does she have? District 6 is not a strong contender, and we never have been. From the look on Noe's face I can tell that her thoughts are something along the same lines as mine.

Slowly, she comes to her senses and begins to walk towards the stage, staring dead ahead with determination, as though just making her way to stand beside Gabriel is a huge effort. It probably is. Noe looks out over the crowd, her hands trembling slightly, eyes eventually wandering to the cameras that are trained on her. She waits a few seconds for somebody to volunteer for her, but nobody does. Why would anyone take the place of an eighteen year old?

Up on the stage, Gabriel shakes her hand. Noe gives her winning smile and without a prompt, the crowd erupt into applause. People force themselves to cheer, masking out the sound of my mother sobbing somewhere in the mass of grimy people.

I want to call out to her, too. Shout encouragement, or regret, or pain, but nothing comes out. I stand still in the mass of stiff bodies, all of them celebrating for her. I can hear my mother wailing near the back where we left her, and I have a picture of my father trying to comfort her as he always does. Without meaning to, I reach out to the stage as though I could grab Noe and pull her back to me. But I'm nowhere near her, and my hand falls limply down by my side again.

The cheering doesn't stop. For minutes, people call out their delight and clap until their palms are raw, a mix of relief and anger in everyone's eyes. Most of these people don't know my sister, but I can tell the cheering is to encourage her, not to celebrate her being chosen. That would be disgusting of them. Eventually, Gabriel has to ask them to settle down, which they eventually do.

"And now to pick our boy tribute," he says, his tone one of barely-concealed disinterest. It's no wonder our tributes never get enough sponsors when all of our coverage must be as boring as watching paint dry, while other districts' presenters are happy and animated, technicolour from head to toe.

Gabriel's hand disappears into the bowl again. Up on stage, my sister's smile is unwavering, hands clasped in front of her. I have no idea how she's being so brave. All I can hear is my mother still crying as everyone goes quiet. At eighteen years old, tall, and fairly strong, we all know that Noe has a fighting chance.

Delayed relief numbs the horror weighing down on my chest. Noe is my eighteen year old sister, not my sixteen year old, pregnant sister. I know that Blaire is going to be safe this year.

Instead of reading the name from the slip of paper he pulled out, Gabriel's expressionless face becomes creased with concern, causing the crowd to stir and mutter. He calls the Mayor over to look, and she does, pulling away while nodding and looking solemn. For a split second, Gabriel's graphite eyes flick out to the back of the crowd, and without following his gaze I know he's looking at my parents again, his expression blank but eyes lit. Then, he seems to remember what he's supposed to be doing, and pulls himself together.

The way he wets his lips a little, searches the crowd of boys and then fixes his gaze on a camera; the way the Mayor bites her lip and glues her eyes to the ground. Because of that, and before he even has to say it, I know my name is on that slip of paper.

"Carmine," he pauses for dramatic effect and my heart sinks. "Abbot."

And this time, the crowd does not cheer.


	3. Chapter 3

There are thousands of faces peering at me as I walk to the stage. My legs feel like jelly as, (by some sick and stupid reflex), they take one step after another without my direction. The crowd part, allowing me through. Now I know why it was so difficult for Noe. I don't want to move, much less walk. I want to stand with the other boys as someone else takes my place on stage; I want to watch as someone else shakes hands with my sister and Gabriel. I want it to be someone else's mother who is crying near the back of the wall of people. Someone else's girlfriend calling their name, breaking the silence that fell over District 6 when the second tribute was announced.

But it's not someone else. It's me who ignores Blaire shouting for me over again. I'm on the stage before I can even register what happened, looking out over the horrified faces of my District. I can see everyone. My friends from school, my grandparents, my teachers. All of them have their mouths closed tight, not even muttering to each other as they are so prone to doing here.

There's a small spatter of clapping when Gabriel attempts to liven them up. "Let's have a round of applause for our Tributes!" Still, none of them speak, and nobody cheers for us.

Hot tears start sliding down my cheeks before I understand why. I don't feel sad, or hurt, or angry. I don't feel anything. All I am is numb and breathless, my eyes flicking towards the Reaping balls every few seconds. Nobody attempts to comfort me, not even Noe, standing tall and proud beside me without shedding a single tear. I can see my own face on the screen, already red and puffy, struggling - and failing - to control my crying. I'm digging my fingernails into my other arm so hard that I draw blood, but it doesn't hurt. Then they cut to my sister, looking pretty with her hair tied back, unsmiling but brave.

Thousands of people are watching me. Watching us. This is the show she's putting on for them, but I can't even try.

This can't be happening. Please, _**someone **_tell me this isn't happening.

People talk to me as I'm led into the Justice Building, though I don't hear anything. I'm taken into a room and left alone on a couch of plush leather, squeezing the cushions with my hands until my knuckles turn white. I hastily wipe my tears away, but it doesn't erase the fact that I cried on national television. I can feel everyone in the Capitol laughing at me, betting I'll be the first to die in the Hunger Games. Because that's where I'm going, and this is real.

Fear hits me like a full-speed bullet train. In 53 years, three people from my District have won these Games. My sister will be in the arena with me, fighting for our lives, possibly killing one another.

I pick up a white cushion and bury my face in it, biting back my urge to scream. Maybe this will suffocate me, or maybe they won't put me in the arena if I refuse to ever part with it again. These ideas are ridiculous, yet I cling to them, desperately searching for some way out of this situation. Still, there isn't one. I close my eyes tight against my thoughts, trying to shut them out unsucsessfully. My name was picking from the bowl, and there's no going back.

I'm startled by the sound of the door being flung open, and my head snaps up to see a single figure in the doorway. The make-up that made her look so pretty earlier has turned into black smudges around her eyes, similar smudges trailing up her forearm where she wiped her tears away. A strip of skin is missing from her bottom lip and it's pooling blood.

"I'm sorry about Noe," Blaire says shakily, taking a seat beside me on the couch. "I'm sorry I made you take the tesserae for me."

I don't reply, don't bother to correct her because she didn't make me take the tesserae. My eyes stay downcast, and I stare at the pillow in my lap, tracing my fingers over the patterns in the fabric. I was so eager to see Blaire this morning, but now I want nothing more than to be alone. She places a hand over mine, giving me the comfort I craved; I don't want anything from her. She's handling this better than I am and I hate her for it. We've both cried, but at least she's doing the right thing and feeling sad about it. I just want to bury my head in the sand.

"I'll wait for you," she says. "I'll watch you every day, I'll start a collection, I'll-" She gulps, trying not to cry again. My eyes are dry as bone. I'm willing her to shut up. Whatever she's saying, I don't want to hear it. "Your parents are going crazy out there. They found me after your name was called, your mother didn't stop crying the entire time. She's a wreck."

I consider not answering her. I want to become a mute and never speak to anyone, ever again. Now isn't the time for that. "I don't want to see them."

"Your parents?" She withdraws her hand from mine, looking puzzled. "Why?"

"I don't even want to know my parents anymore." I know she doesn't understand, but she nods anyway. I know what I mean, even if it doesn't make sense to her.

If Noe and I come head to head in that arena, how could I hurt her knowing that my parents will be watching at home? How could I ever return to District 6, when all of our dinner conversations would be stiff and full of resentment? Only one of us can come out of the Games alive. Either way, my parents lose a child. They'll never look at me the same way again if it's me who's on that train home in a few weeks. If I could just distance themselves from their judgement, maybe it would make it easier.

A few weeks.

In just a few weeks I could be Carmine Abbott, the Carmine Abbott, winner of the 53rd Annual Hunger Games.

Or I could die.

And be Carmine Abbott; tribute who died in the arena. Nothing more than a memory.

Trembling, Blaire throws herself into my arms. We hold each other in silence, and I comb my fingers through her hair, letting myself cry again because there's nothing I can do to hold it back. Feeling my chest wrack with sobs only makes her hold me tighter, which I'm grateful for. After a while, a Peacekeeper appears to say that our time has run out.

"Please don't let them bring my parents in here," I beg Blaire, and she nods, getting to her feet. Wordlessly, she unclasps the pendant around her neck and hands it to me before she leaves. I open my mouth to say goodbye, but I express nothing but I choked noise. Goodbye is too final, but I have to say something. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

She doesn't reply. The door closes and I'm alone, trying to wipe my face dry with my shirt, which is somehow already spattered with axel grease.

It's selfish, but I'm not crying because of Blaire. I'm crying because of me, because I'm a huge liar and an idiot for telling her I'd see her again. Because this is really happening. Because in a week's time I'll be in an arena with twenty-three other people who want to see me dead.

Noe.

I've never seen sibling tributes before, but I've seen Hunger Games, and I've seen people turn on their allies when things get too hard on them. In the arena, people would probably kill their grandmothers if it meant some easy food or water. I can only pray that someone else can take out Noe before I have to.

_Kill _her. The word sounds foreign when applied to my sister, who always made my favourite meals when it was her turn to cook at home. My only sister, who bought me toy trains with her wages when she started working at 12 years old, who applied antiseptic to every injury I ever got. Nobody in the Capitol knows. All we are to them are nameless, faceless tributes from District 6. Lambs to the slaughter.

They're wrong. Whichever one of us goes first, I know it won't be without a fight.

Apparently I don't have any more visitors, so I lay back on the soft couch and run the necklace Blaire gave me through my fingers. It's horribly crafted, with little barbs sticking from the chain, and a subtle centerpiece of jade.

My mind wanders back to the last games, where the tributes were shoved out into a tundra and left to fend off wild bears - assuming they didn't get to each other first. Last year, one of our tributes died falling out of a tree, and apparently Six was the laughing stock of the Capitol for weeks. The games before that, Skipper's games, the desert drove the tributes crazy and most of them ended up killing themselves. I remember that one vividly. Everyone was betting on our girl tribute that year, a girl from Noe's class in school. She made it to the bottom three before she gave up. Skipper didn't get a single sponsor. He won just by waiting it out.

Or the game before that, the 50th games, some kid from 12 won against forty-seven others. Maybe there's hope for me, after all.

It would've been during Skipper's Games that I made Blaire this necklace from scrap wire and a stone that I found jammed in one of our train's wheels. I wish she hadn't given it to me, but it's too late now. It seems silly, going into the games with a token made by my own hands, although I suppose technically it is a gift. I wonder what our previous winners brought with them.

It wouldn't suprise me if they'd tossed their tokens out of the train window on their way home. Nobody wants to remember the Hunger Games; you can tell from the way so many victors end up as depressed drunks or, like Brass, addicted to drugs like morphling. They play reruns all the time just to taunt us, and briefly I wonder if they do the same thing in the Capitol. If those people are so bloodthirsty and easily entertained that they'd watch the same people be killed, over and over, in eager anticipation for the next year's bloodbath.

The ceiling is mirrored in here, and I can see how pale my face has become, my cheeks still wet. I sigh. I'm not exactly painting myself as being an emotionless killing machine, which seems to be a common tactic around this time. Of course, when these kids get to the arena, it all breaks down. Every year we watch them curling into the foetal position and shying away from the cold reality of the Games, shedding tears for their dead allies and shaking with pure, undiluted fear. I can't imagine how all of those tributes, most put out of their misery years ago, must have felt knowing they were going to die in that place. Scooped up by a hovercraft and delivered back to their families, sealed in a box.

There's a knock on the door and it's Gabriel, come to escort me to the train, not a trace of sympathy in his eyes. I get up and follow him without a word, leaving the room behind. As soon as we step outside I'm surrounded by flashing cameras and microphones are thrust at me, the raid reporters held back by some Peacekeepers. I've seen hundreds of other tributes walk this same route, shielding their faces. And how many of them ever came home?

It feels like an extra slap in the face that my final view of District 6 before I leave has to be the station. Instead of bustling with familiar faces, or peaceful and quiet like it was this morning, the place is overrun with people from the Capitol, desperate to catch a glipse of my face with their lenses. I've worked on these tracks since I was 12 years old, part-time after school every day except Sunday. Everyone in my family works here, and always has done. It doesn't look like much, but this place has always been the center of my life. Not only am I not keen leave District 6, but I'm going to be taken away on a train that I helped to build, from a platform that I worked on every day. In the square, people watched me faint on big-screen televisions that I helped to set up.

What use is a mechanic in the Hunger Games? How did any of us ever win?

Noe joins us at the platform, guided by our new mentor, Brass Maddox. She lives over in Victor's Village and I've only ever seen here at Reapings before. We've never met in person, and according to local gossip she spends most of her time in her house. Her presence makes me uncomfortable, even though she is only staring ahead with a blank expression.

Everywhere in sight, Capitol people crowd us to shout their encouragment, but we ignore them and keep our heads down. I wish I could turn around and shout obscenities at them, ask them why they think it's fun to do this to us. Why it's necessary to even have the games, when we all know that they, the Capitol, own everything we have and control everything we do. We don't need to be reminded.

But these people will be my ticket to a better future if I ever get out alive. So I keep my mouth shut, head down, one foot in front of the other until I'm on the train and Gabriel shows me where my private car is. No words of comfort or encouragement, just a simple, "here you go" and then he's gone, leaving behind a faint smell of lime.

It's disturbingly clean in my private car. In District 6, everything is sealed with a thin coating of axel grease, which is why it's hard to believe that this train has been sitting in our station for about a week. Everything in the room modern and clean, much cleaner than the chalky grey distict flicking by outside the window. I should take a shower before I do anything else. I'm sooty and disgusting compared to this place, plus my shirt is now smeared with blood and make-up thanks to Blaire.

I don't want to think about her, though. Her pendant is still in my hand, sheened with my sweat, held way too tight ever since she gave it to me. I let it slip through my fingers and it hits the ground with a soft thud. I sink to the floor too, resting my back aganist the door and burrying my face in my hands.

I wonder how my parents are doing. How long has it been since I left them? Did they watch me on television heading to the train and see how upset I was?

Noe is being so strong. She hasn't shed a single tear yet, but maybe she is now. Maybe she's sitting in the same place in her train car, crying her eyes out while I'm staring dead ahead, thinking about things.

For hours, I stay there, until my back goes numb, trying to picture being in the arena, even though I can't. The reality of my situation hasn't fully sunk in yet; I know what's happening, but at the same time, I can't help feeling like it's pretend. Like someone is going to jump out of the cupboard and exclaim, "Suprise! We were just kidding! You're not going to the Games, nobody is, we abolished the whole thing! Would you like some orange juice?"

That doesn't happen, so I decide to have my shower. At home, we have these very weak showers that always have lukewarm water and barely enough power to get a milimetre of dirt off your skin. Not that it matters. The second you step out, the grime settles again. The train is spotless, and after I'm clean I don't feel guilty about selecting a casual white shirt from the wardrobe before I head to dinner.

I don't especially want to see anyone I'm sharing this train with, but I do want to see the recaps of the other tributes being Reaped. The first thing that catches my eye is the food. The main meal seems to be some kind of gigantic bird, it's platter is piled high with citrus fruits. The table is leaden with bread, cheeses, pitchers of drinks, and some kind of yellow, goopy desert. I had never starved at home, but I've never seen this much food in one place before.

Brass catches me staring and silently starts dishing out a plate for me, her arms shaking under the weight of it. Maybe she isn't so bad afer all.

Skipper, my other mentor, is sitting beside Brass. He must have been on the train the entire time, because I haven't seen him all day. He looks a lot different than I remember from television. He's nineteen now, but he looks much younger, his dark eyes sunken and his blonde hair unruly. He stares at me when I take my plate from Brass and sit down beside Gabriel, not speaking to me. As far as I know, Skipper is an ironic name they came up with for him during his time in the Games - his face was always set in a silent frown, just as it is now, so I suppose him not speaking is a common occurance.

"Noe will be down soon," Gabriel informs me through a mouthful of poultry. For someone who lives in the Capitol, he doesn't seem too fussed about his table manners. "She's taking a nap just now."

I nibble on a piece of bread while I wait for her. Gabriel and Brass aren't shy about their eating. I'm not sure I'll be able to control myself if I start shoving forkfuls of bird into my mouth. I'm not even sure what kind of bird it is. So many things on this table are foreign to me. What if I'm allergic to something?

Then I'd die, and they'd have to turn the train around and get another tribute. I'm sure that would be a load off Noe's mind, at least.

"Speak of the devil!" Gabriel announces as Noe appears in the doorway with a shy smile. For the first time I've ever witnessed, she looks genuinely clean, and she's dressed in a simple blue pinafore. Her hair is down for a change, reaching down to the middle of her back. I think it looks nice, but he rolls his eyes and says, "Your prep team will have an absolute fit when they see that hair of yours."

I glare at him, but Noe doesn't seem to mind and curls a strand of it around her finger. "Prep team?"

Gabriel looks like he thinks she might be joking. "They work with your stylist, to prepare you for public events and such."

Noe made it just in time to see the reruns of the Reapings. All of our eyes are glued towards the television on the far wall as the perky commentators guide us through every district's ceremony, introducing us to our new opponents. The boys and girls from One, Two and Four were tripping over themselves to volunteer, all of them fit, healthy and eager. The others all looked horrified to hear their names, some breaking into tears right there on the stage, others putting on a brave face like my sister had. Just as I expected, the commentator had a good laugh to herself when I burst into tears, more distraught than any of the others even though I didn't feel it at the time. District 6 has the most tragic tributes this year - siblings, forced to turn on each other in the dreaded arena. It's all very suspenseful, and I'm sure the people in the Capitol are lapping up the drama.

"At least they won't forget you," Gabriel says with a shrug. "Both of you. The worst thing that can happen at this stage is people having no idea who you are. Nobody in the Capitol is going to remember twenty-four names, especially not when it comes to picking sponsors."

"I don't think I want to be remembered for this," Noe says uneasily, her plate of succulent white meat sitting untouched, just like mine. I can't help but agree with her.

Only a few tributes stand out to me. A little girl of thirteen was chosen from district eight, dressed innocently enough in a white cotton dress, although nothing could hide her wild, bloodthirsty eyes. A sickly boy was chosen from Ten, quite obviously underweight and having coughing fits every few minutes. His face is a delicate, pure white that contasts his flaming orange hair. The girl from eleven looks to be around my age, but her face is mangled with scars and she looked as though she was going to be sick with terror, tears streaming down her face the second her name was announced.

They show my tearstained face again before cutting to an interview with one of the Gamemakers. Gabriel's right. At least I'd been memorable, even if I was only remembered for being weak.


End file.
